


Sparrow, My Sparrow

by alisonkay



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Originality, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, Tenth Walker, possible eventual romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 09:44:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10434951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisonkay/pseuds/alisonkay
Summary: A tenth walker story, of sorts. No 'modern girl' stuff, just some pure, Middle-Earth nonsense.A young elven lass, raised for as long as she can remember, by humans. Memories are a fickle thing, though, and one might wonder about the before. The after, too, can be rather tricksome.Will depict violence/war. Also emotional turmoil. Probably best for mature audiences.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is absolutely for my own entertainment, and not much else. Therefore, I have not spent 900+ hours scouring original source material, so much as drawing on what I remember here and there from the novels and movies. Things will be higgilty-piggilty, so please don't come art me with your 'well, ACTUALLY, they did this'. I know. I don't care. I still hope you enjoy this.

**Prologue: Home**

 

“Sparrow, dear, would you fetch some more boiled water?”

 

A young woman perks up from the corner of the cramped bedroom, where’d she’d been tucked up on a stool. She pushes her folded legs away from her body, feet touching the floor without noise. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, as if she’s just been woken from a nap--or she hasn’t slept in some time.

 

“How is he?” The young woman asks, standing off the stool and stretching her joints. The movement jostles the cloak that had been draped over her head, mussing her fair hair at odd angles and revealing long, pointed ears. 

 

“No change,” The other speaker replies, an elderly woman with rounded, human ears and greying hair. “The water, dear”

 

“Yes, right--” 

 

“Wait!” A third voice croaks out from somewhere under a mass of blankets in the centre of the room.

 

The elder woman frowns from her position next to the lone bed, her eyebrows creasing deeply in worry. Her own voice comes out hushed and pained, “Be still, my Love.”

 

“I’ll not be still, woman! I want my Sparrow!” The blankets shift, pulling back far enough to reveal a human man on the brink of life’s end. His greying hair matches that of his wife’s, but the lines of his face run deeper. 

 

“I’m here,” The young elven woman says as she moves to the bedside opposite the elder woman, “Your Sparrow is right here.”

 

“My Sparrow,” The old man repeats, reaching out a frail hand in the elf’s direction. She returns the gesture, taking his hand gently between her own. 

 

A moment of silence stretches throughout the room. Sparrow’s face mirrors the old man’s, weariness and sorrow warring with their attempts at keeping a brave face. 

 

The silence is interrupted by a loud, wet sob that comes from the old woman. 

 

“Ye gods, woman, hold yerself together!” The old man barks in a surprisingly strong voice, and Sparrow let’s out a strangled sort of laugh.

 

The man turns his head in Sparrow’s direction in time to see the mirth on her face, and winks at her. “Ay, there’s some fire in me yet, girl.”

 

“So it would seem.” Sparrow reaches out a hand to brush the tips of her fingers over his forehead, his skin paper-thin.

 

“I’ve something to tell you, my Sparrow,” the man seems to deflate a little, his hand going slack in Sparrow’s own.

 

“We kept ye long past what we ought to have,” The old woman gasps slightly, but the man continues, “Ye were meant to be taken home. The ones who found ye, they gave us a fee. A hefty bit a coin to get you from one place to another, as we agreed...But ye were such a rarity Sparrow!”

 

“I don’t understand.” Is all Sparrow can think to say.

 

“You, my Sparrow. Little, graceful, Sparrow. Always flittin’ about, showin’ the world yer sparklin’ grin. Ye catch eyes. Grab attention… We was ‘bout to shut down for good when ye fell into our laps, callin’ all the patrons back to our arts. We had you do that one show--ye remember, the first--and had half the town askin’ fer yer hand in marriage and all--”

 

His words cut off abruptly as a sudden fit of coughing takes him. He pulls his hand back away from Sparrow, who is sitting in somewhat of a trance. Her worry for the man overcomes her confusion, though, and she quickly leans forward to help him steady himself.

 

“Ahh, girl,” The man speaks again, when finally his fit subsides. “I never wanted to tell ye. I thought I’d keep my little Sparrow wit me forever, only yer the only one’s got forever!”

 

“I’m not sure I understand,” Sparrow replies, a knot between her brows. 

 

“He means we never tried.” The old woman finally pipes in, something in her voice weighing down her words. “To find your people. There are places where the elves live, we’ve all heard tales. We never looked. Never sent you away, like we were meant to.”

 

“But you said I was abandoned!” Sparrow burst out, emotion rising in her voice. “You said I was left with you by my family, that I had nowhere to go! No people to call my own!”

 

“We lied.” 

 

Sparrow turns to look at the old man. His eyes are drooping, his near-invisible lips are turned down in a frown. She can remember when his hair was still a deep brown, when his eyes sparkled with mischief, and his calloused hands would pluck at his instrument. 

 

The old man had once been a young man, and in all of her memories, he has been Sparrow’s father-figure. 

 

Tears sting her eyes, and her vision swims.

 

“My Sparrow. My dear, wee Sparrow.” The old man’s voice holds a lifetime of regret, of love. “Promise me ye’ll look, when I’m gone. For thems that you belong to, really.”

 

“But I--” Sparrow’s throat threatens to close off completely as the tears begin spilling down her cheeks in earnest.

 

“Promise me, girl!” 

 

“I p-promise!” Sparrow’s voice cracks, and she all but throws herself on the old man, sobbing into the blankets that cover him.

  
They stay that way for much of the night; the old woman watching as her husband’s mortality takes him, their adoptive, elven daughter weeping all the while. 


	2. Chapter 2

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

 

The wind picks up, and I find myself thinking once again that my travel cloak is lacking. 

 

I also think I’m lost.

 

That’s not exactly a new thought though...this trip was meant to take four months, and I’ve been wondering for five. Five months, mostly alone (I had stopped in a few settlements, and passed a few travellers), and with all the time in the world to think about what was to come. What had already been.

 

Were the elves going to be beautiful? Graceful, and polished, each and every one of them as magnificent as the stars? If so, there was no way in hell they’d welcome me, their goblin-esque kin. 

 

Even worse, what if they did welcome me? What if they brought me into their homes, and their hearts, and I disappointed them by never changing? What if a hundred years from now, I was still the same sloppy, human-raised clutz? 

 

Oh good, these were all very healthy thoughts.  _ Arg! _

 

Putting it all out of my mind, I tug my cloak a little tighter near my face, and trudge onwards. I had broken camp about two hours ago, and the sun is still low in the sky. In the distance, I can see what looks like some sort of stream, or river. Hopefully, it isn’t something too large and powerful for me to cross, as I’m really not in the mood to add another month of detours.

 

I only manage to walk another league or so, when I’m stopped suddenly by the sound of crunching nearby. My body goes rigid, and my eyes move in my head, searching for a source. The sound was faint, but after spending so much time on my own, out in the world, I’ve grown weary.

 

I  _ feel _ whoever it is before I hear them speak.

 

“ _ What brings you to these lands, stranger? _ ”

 

My mind seems to take an eternity to form a response. Probably because the person has spoken in a language I’ve never heard before. Probably even more so, because I understood every word.

 

“I, uh,” I stammer eloquently in Westron, “I came to speak to Lord Elrond. I have heard he is very old--I mean, that he knows things.”

 

“ _ You seek the Lord of Rivendell? And where do you come from? _ ” The voice continues in that flowy language. It’s a masculine voice, yet musical almost. The speaker is standing somewhere to my right, behind me, and for some reason I am too afraid to turn around and face them.

 

“All over, kind of. It’s hard to explain--I really just wish to speak to him.” I can’t help but wince as my voice comes out meek. I’m trying to be brave, here.

 

“ _ Then I shall take you to him. But these are dark times, and we must be weary. Please, face me. _ ”

 

I try to swallow, and gulp audibly. Score two for cowardice, bravery’s got nothin’.

 

Still, I manage to force my body into action, and turn around to face the speaker. Before me stands some sort of elven god, and I am immediately made aware that I am a mud-soaked toad. 

I have seen all of one elf in my lifetime--me, in the reflection of clear water a handful of times, and a fogged looking-glass once. Mostly, I could only make out the pale skin, fair hair, blue eyes, and pointed ears. Those features had all been blurry, too.

 

Before me stands what is obviously an elf, and probably one who is highly attractive by elf standards. Well, I hope he is, or I’m screwed. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and has the most glorious golden hair I’ve ever seen. It practically cascades down his shoulders. His clothes are impeccably clean, and his hand is resting on what appears to be the intricate hilt of a sword.

 

Grey-blue eyes stare at me, curiosity and caution obvious in his features.

 

“ _ I must escort you. I ask that you stay by my side, and do not try to draw a weapon. _ ” The elf’s voice, holds authority and I nod my head eagerly.

 

The only weapon I have is a battered blade as long as my forearm, originally meant for slicing hog flanks. I’ve also no idea how to wield it, other than pointy side out. Still, I figure he doesn’t need to know that.

 

“ _ This way _ ,” The elf gestures with the hand not resting on his sword, “ _ Keep close _ .”

 

\---

 

As it turns out, I wasn’t so far from Rivendell. The elf who escorts me is silent, but I can feel his eyes on me every now and then. He’s curious, I can tell, but it’s probably nothing compared to the curiosity burning in me. I’m going through lists of questions in my head, figuring out what to ask first. 

 

At the first sight of civilization, my mind goes silent. 

 

This world is so far from that of man’s, it makes me want to weep for all my lost time. Nature and architecture blend together seamlessly creating pathways and archways, benches and buildings. My mind is near silent with wonder, and I think I can feel my mouth hanging open as I am led about.

 

I have never seen such flowers before. I have never smelled such incense. Even my hearing is assailed with a new appreciation for the songs I can hear drifting from this corner and that. I’m so overwhelmed I almost want to cry.

 

Then, suddenly, I’m in some sort of courtyard. 

 

I’ve lost track of my guide, and turn around quickly to try and locate him. I catch a glimpse of a retreating head of golden hair, before my eyes fall on an elf standing near the courtyard’s entrance.

 

Did I pass him on my way in?

 

The elf stands tall, dark hair arranged perfectly around his shoulders, and a delicate silver band around his forehead. His skin is pale, much like mine and my guide elf’s, and his eyes are a piercing grey that seem to be looking straight into my heart. Still, there is a softness to him, as if he is broadcasting a peaceful aura.

 

“ _ Hello, little one. You are welcome here. _ ” The dark-haired elf speaks, and I hear age in his voice, wisdom.

 

“I, uh, hi,” I reply meekly. 

 

“You wish to speak in Westron?” The elf asks, using the very language mentioned with a quirk of one brow.

 

“I only know to speak Westron, sir.” I can feel myself wringing my hands, and suddenly I remember how filthy I am from my travels. Damn.

 

The elf in front of me looks perplexed, if such a look is possible on such a serene face.

 

“I have been told you seek my council. What is your name?”

 

My eyes must be bugging out of my head, because what he just said mean that he’s, “Lord Elrond?”

 

His smile is benevolent, a kind lord bestowing good will on a worm like me.

 

“I--” I splutter and bow clumsily, unsure of how else to conduct myself, “I was, um, I need, uh--”

 

“Calm, little one. Calm,” Elrond lifts a hand slightly, palm flat. It’s as if he casts some sort of spell, though I’m sure it’s just his commanding tone. I force myself to take slow breaths, to calm my racing heart.

 

“I’m sorry, sir. I simply have so much to ask you. Oh, and I’m Sparrow.”

 

“Sparrow?” He seems to be testing the name in his mouth. “What do you ask of me, Sparrow?”

 

Now or never. I steel myself, willing my built up hopes to go hide in a corner of my mind until I am positive I can let them out.

 

“Sir, I don’t know who I am. I mean, before the forty winters past. I was found wandering the woods by humans, and...well, I’ve only ever remembered from then on.”

 

The look on Lord Elrond’s face slips slowly from serene inquiry to something more like horrified confusion.


End file.
